and when you're gone
by flufflybunny
Summary: if somebody loved you, they'd tell you by now, we all turn away when you're down. Arya, Murtagh, and Eragon; bad things come in threes, this time around.


**and when you're gone**

murtagh/arya, eragon/arya, eragon/murtagh, eragon/arya/murtagh, greenie, past nasuada/murtagh / het, slash, **incest, **au, threesome, all-smalls, character deaths, dub-con; arya-as-green-rider / **r **for themes

**notes: **strongly au; brom is arya's father. eragon is a sociopath. set in some nebulous time when post-galbatorix murtagh is with the varden. kind of like 'save the last dance for me' if you turned it on its head. ugh, guys, i love this story so much. if you say bad things you will make me cry, swear to god. **this has no capitals. it's silly & stylistic. D**

**summary:** if somebody loved you, they'd tell you by now; we all turn away when you're down the hush sound, goodbye blues

**disclaimer: **christopher paolini wrote it, and it belongs to himself and not me.

* * *

arya is sitting on the edge of her bed, hair falling in a long sheet of ebony, eyes gleaming dark, reflecting the sunset that comes through her window. she bites her lip, ivory-white on deep red, stares deep into her wineglass. "i'm worried," she says, to the man beside her, his dark head resting on the blankets beside her lap.

"about what?" murtagh asks, lazily. "or really i should ask what you're not worried about, because i can see from the look in your eyes that you're in a worrying mood."

"about him," she says, softly, seriously. "he's getting darker and darker every day and i can't--"

"you can't stop him," murtagh says, gravely, propping himself up on his elbows, indolent pose at odds with his sad dark face. "arya, i'm sorry, but this is who you made, and you'd better learn to deal with it."

"i love him," she says, bitterly. "but i love him."

he sits up, takes her face in-between his strong hands. "you think you love him, dearheart. you love who you thought he was; we're all like that. he's getting better at those masks, or maybe he just shed one." his voice is gentle, and oh-so-slightly mocking.

"i'm supposed to love him," she whispers, "i'm supposed to love him. i'm not supposed to-- to shiver when he gets near me, when his hands--" her voice trembles, and she pulls away from him, sets her glass on the bedside table carefully and then turns back to him.

"you don't have to," he says, "you're so much more than a story, arya, you're so much than a princess in a play or a book, you're alive, you're real, you shiver when my hands touch you, you're afraid of him, sanely, and that means that you don't have to follow a script. it means you can make your own choices, and fuck, arya, i wouldn't pick eragon. not the eragon that you know."

she puts her hand on his arm, grips so tight her nails dig deep into his flesh. neither of them notice. they're used to pain, both giving and taking. "yes," she says, "but you did. you picked him. you bet on a winner."

"i didn't choose," murtagh says, tightly. "i took an oath. i've broken too many to lose this one. and it's not so high a price, in the end."

"only your soul," she says, "the market for souls is booming, lately." she looks down.

he is bleeding, little trickles of crimson oozing from the crescent-moon marks her nails left.

--

eragon comes into her room at night, wearing a blue shirt that matches his dragon. "hello," he says, softly, leaning over her.

she suppresses the urge to bite, to kick, to throw him off like she'd've done way back when he was durza and she was stronger. "good evening," she whispers instead, hands gripping her sheets tightly, too tightly.

he grins, just slightly, sliver of white teeth peeking out from behind brown skin. "always polite, aren't you?"

she nods, mutely. his eyes are shining, brightly blue, vaguely angry; she wonders what murtagh did this time, how much blood she'll find if _(when)_ she goes to him in the morning.

eragon kisses her then, dark and dangerous and possessive and his hand runs down the front of her nightdress, leaving little runners of sparks and passion in their wake and she thinks, _you're always generous, _sort of angry, mostly resigned, _so _fucking tired, and she bites back the part of her that wants to run, and kisses him back.

he whispers, _i love you, _into her neck, words gentle like a caress, like his careful careful hands, and she fights the bile rising in her throat; _i love you too._

--

she goes to nasuada's grave in the morning, wears shoes and pants and a sword and feels a little bit like herself again; the trees don't judge her, they just sing their own songs to the beat of the wind. she sits beside her friend's headstone, and she says, "i'm so sorry."

there's no answer from the carved stone; murtagh made it, last of his strength, last of his magic and his heart. it says, _i loved you, _if you know how to look, and, _be forever. _there is a little dragon, carved of ruby, claws extended over the top of the stone; thorn is buried here too.

"i miss you," she says, at last, chin on her knees. "i'm sorry i couldn't save him. but i'm glad you're not here to see this. it would break your heart."

murtagh has not been here since he made it. he has not been outside since they buried her.

--

eragon says, "you know we're not really brothers," mutters it into the bloody line of murtagh's spine. "my father was no kind of traitor."

"yeah," murtagh says, bites out the words like they're causing him pain to say them, but more if he kept them inside, "well, at least you don't have to worry about _that _tendency creeping up. one to subtract from millions. 'cause i mean, if you're going to kill people, you should at least _discriminate, _right?"

eragon hits him, the harsh sound of flesh-on-flesh ringing in both their ears. "don't you _dare,_" he whispers, low-voiced and deadly, "don't even fucking _start._"

arya shrinks back, even as far away from them as she is, sitting in the window-seat. her dragon mews piteously in her mind, _what's wrong?_

eragon looks up, dark blue eyes meeting hers; she feels a chill run up her spine, they're so _empty. _"go to him," he says, "it's probably best you don't see this, anyway."

it's the look in murtagh's eyes that scares her the most, his head twisted away from eragon, hair a dark shock against the pillow; there's nothing of him in it, only defeat.

she almost slips on the floor, on her way out.

--

murtagh sits cross-legged, tailor-style on the bed. there is a faint line of blood around his mouth, soft curve of purple-green-brown around his eye. every move he makes is carefully judged, calculated to see if it's worth the pain.

arya puts her hand on his forehead, delicate and careful, and green sparks dance down her fingers, over the sparse lines of his body. "goddess," she breathes, as they come back to her, tell her the damage, "you're a mess."

he smiles, just slightly. "i'm used to it," he says, voice cracking a little. "i guess that's another vow to break, right?"

"well," she says, tiredly, "it shouldn't be."

his voice matches hers for weariness, his eyes mirroring the bleakness she sees in herself, in all of them. "it's not worth it," he says. "you know it's not."

she sighs, just an exhalation of breath, and she presses her forehead to his. "i wish it could be. i wish this was the war that we thought was worth fighting."

his voice is low and pained. "no war's worth fighting," he says, "my father taught me that. _he_ just reinforced the lesson."

she buries her face in his shoulder, thinks _i wish you could cry, i wish you could understand what you told me. _

he says, "why are you crying?"

she smiles at him, quiet and tearful. "because," she says, tear-choked, "you won't cry for yourself. someone needs to cry for you."

a long time ago, when they were young, he would have kissed her and she would have kissed back. they're too grown-up for that, now.

--

she stands on the ground beside nasuada's grave, watching her dragon learn to fly. he swoops and dives in the air, tiny claws scoring the clouds.

there is a hand on her shoulder, gentle like no one else.

she does not turn.

"your father is brom," eragon's voice is calm, quiet. restrained. she's heard that quality before; usually before a lot of people die.

she thinks, _run, _to her dragon. _get out of here. don't come back._ "what makes you say that?"

"islanzadi," eragon says, calmly. "she was most helpful."

she shrugs, heart in her throat, turns around. his eyes have gone steel-blue, flat and pale. "she's never said anything to me." _you can't be serious, _she thinks, _holy goddess._

"i find that hard to believe," he tells her, and without missing a beat, "_come back._ don't try that again, arya. you don't want to push me."

her dragon lands carefully beside him. she feels sick, like she's going to throw up. _your father is brom._

murtagh's voice is calm and strong when he slips out of the forest, dark like a shadow. "well, that's a funny little triangle we make," he says. his hands are in his pockets; his shirt is white, long-sleeved and oversized. it slides down a little over one shoulder, revealing a dark spot of red-brown; there's a few red marks on his neck, his collarbones. she doesn't think he should be walking.

"don't interfere," eragon says, steel under his voice. "this is between us."

arya thinks, _please don't go._

murtagh steps between them, his back to her like he's in any condition to be any kind of knight. "i don't think so," he says. "i really don't think so."

eragon sighs. "what the fuck's it going to take to break you? i took your dragon, took your wife, what the fuck else do i need to do?"

murtagh goes abruptly bone-pale, muscles tensing in his back. "oh, goddess."

she says, "eragon." his name sounds wrong in her mouth. "tell me you're lying."

his smile is crooked, deadly and calculating. there is nothing left of the young man who saved her from a shade; perhaps he was never there. "i don't lie," he tells her. "i'd think you would have learned that by now."

the magic settles over them, thick and suffocating. as the blackness swallows her vision, swallows her heart, she reaches out her hand to him. _stay with me._

--

she wakes up in eragon's arms, her dragon nuzzling worried at her neck. "hey," eragon says, smiling gently, "we were worried. nasty fall you took."

she blinks, rubbing her eyes. "was it completely embarassing?"

"totally humiliating," he says, "how're you feeling?"

"better," she says, "because you're here." his hands are warm and strong. she leans back against him, lips brushing his once, quickly. "i love you," she says. "remember that."

"always," he says, still smiling. there is an edge at the corner of his smile. she doesn't worry about it.

--

murtagh sits beside her, hand on her shoulder lightly. "hey," he says, careful and slow. "you all right?"

arya shakes her head; her mind is cloudy, foggy and fucked-up. there's something here that feels wrong, something deep inside her that _hurts_. "i'm fine," she lies, flawless as ever. "you?"

his grin is wry, sad; nothing like a smile's supposed to be. "same here," he says; he's telling as much truth as she is, but he's worse at lying than she is.

she shrugs. "lies are cheap," she says, slowly. "the truth is too hard to find. i miss my father."

there's blackness in his eyes, a little pit of emptiness that she thinks could drown her, if she let it. "i'm sorry," he says. "i don't know what that's like."

"i'm sorry for that," arya says. his hand is soft, warm and soothing; she feels almost calm with his skin on hers. "some days, life isn't fair."

"some?"he asks, sarcastic and sad, irony lying heavy on his words. "fuck, this is--"

"hey," she says, "we're winning. so there won't be another you. or another me, come to think of it."

"there could never be anyone like you, arya," he says. she's not sure whether he means it as a compliment or not.

--

she passes murtagh in the hallway. there are tired lines deep in his face, carved too long.

there is a bag in his hand. "i'm leaving," he tells her. "i can't stay."

"i'm sorry," she says, hardly knowing why. "good luck."

"you could--" he starts, stops and tries again. "you could come with me, if you want."

she smiles wryly. "sorry," she says, "i'm pretty happy here. i love him, you know. and it's a good thing that we're doing."

something passes over his eyes, something she can't read. "good luck to you, then," he says, kissing her cheek fleetingly. "come find me, if you need me."

"of course," she says, "of course. take care of yourself."

"i'll try," he says, and vanishes down the hall.

she keeps walking.


End file.
